


And we'll make it through (we always do)

by shadows_of_1832 (SaoirseVictoire)



Series: To Fly and to Fall [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: EnjonineWeek2018, F/M, Pregnancy, day 6: soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20237983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaoirseVictoire/pseuds/shadows_of_1832
Summary: Enjolras has some concerns about the present and future, and Eponine helps set his mind at ease.





	And we'll make it through (we always do)

“It’s an odd time of year for a blizzard; barely November and you can’t make it out the door,” Eponine remarks, reclining on the couch as she skims through a book. Enjolras had just come in from an attempt to clear the steps, knee-deep in snow. Droplets of ink were still on his face, after coming home straight from his work at the print shop and heading straight back outside.

“There is much difficulty in telling which step is where.” He removes his coat and scarf. He looks over the bareness of the room: the couch, a chair, a bookshelf with a scarce amount of books, a worn rug at the center of the floor; all second-hand, whether bought off the street or taken in once the previous owner had no use for them. Back when they’d first arrived, there was little they could afford, and the same remained true now.

He glances over to Eponine, her hand draped over her swollen middle. What made them think they could bring another life into this?

His parents would be more than willing to help, he’s sure of that. Perhaps financially. Maybe they’d offer for he and Eponine to live with them for a spell, their housing spacious enough to do so, and being more financially stable. His parents know he survived the disaster of 1832, and due to Eponine’s insistence, he had written a letter now and again to inform them he’s alive and well, nothing more; he keeps his writing to a minimum, not wanting to risk his parents’ safety should anything happen to him.

The struggles he faces now, scraping by paycheck to paycheck, it’s barely enough to care for Eponine and himself, and even more difficult now with the soon addition to their family on top of Eponine being out of work for the time being.

His parents would help, he knows, but he cannot bring it upon himself to ask, old-fashioned ways stuck in his usually-progressive mind.

Eponine turns a page her book, then her face contorts and she mutters something under her breath.

“Another hard kick?” he asks, sitting by her feet.

“Yes, and near the ribs, too. One of these times might make it difficult to breathe,” she replies. “Hopefully they’re born before that happens.”

“Indeed.”

“Any day now, if what the doctor and the midwife said was true,” she says, closing her book and setting it on her stomach. “I’m ready for it.”

_But we’re not_, he keeps to himself, thinking of the emptiness of the so-called nursery; nothing more than a cradle and a rocking chair. Any blankets they had were quilts Eponine had put together using the scraps of cloth she had come across at work as a seamstress. What little clothes they had for the child were sewn by her.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, leaning to glimpse at his face.

“Only thinking; nothing you need to worry about.”

She makes a humming noise that leads him to think she doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press him further as she goes back to her book.

They deserve better than this, Eponine, their unborn child, and dare he would even say himself. What 1832 was supposed to be, could have prevented this, these struggles. He doesn’t want their child to face the same cruel world as Eponine had, and he prays it never comes to that, that he’d gather the strength to head to Toulouse first and have a word with his parents.

“You need to stop that,” Eponine says, flipping a page and peering over her book.

“Stop what?”

“Fretting over where we are.”

“I am not.”

She scoffs. “You are! I know the look too well.”

He takes a deep breath, shaking his head.

“Alright.” She sets her book, and folds her arms across her middle. “You remember the winter two, three years ago, where you were bedridden for weeks? Our first winter here? You were in worse shape than after the barricades, almost thought I was going to lose you. You were a bit upset with me for a day or two because I used what little savings we had for a doctor.”

“I know.”

“We made it through that winter, though, didn’t we? And every year since?” She tilts her head, and her hand reaches to brush his arm, albeit with some difficulty. “I know we’re facing some rough time financially, but it’s nothing you and I haven’t faced before. We’ll make it through, we always do.”

He nods, looking up from the floor to meet her gaze, giving her a small smile. His hand reaches for her bump, and she places it near the top, where he feels something nudge his palm; it’s something he’s experienced multiple times, and yet it still puts him in awe.

“You’ve given me more than I can ask for. Home, love, family. Everything I thought I was never going to have, and with so much happiness,” she says, smiling as she watches. “I will never feel grateful enough. What we have, all of it is enough for me. So, please, don’t think anything different from me.”

“Never feel the need to thank me; I still feel there is much I myself owe you,” he replies, his eyes flickering from her face and back to their touching hands that covered the little unborn life they shared.

She laughs a little, nodding. “And I, you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone want to take a guess where the inspiration for this fic is? (Hint: The first fic in this series may hint the film.) ;)


End file.
